Angel-Headed Hipsters
by Collie
Summary: Sometime in the Sixties, in an unknown bar in an unknown place, Angel meets a man who will have an extreme influence on his life, and on the entire world.


TITLE: Angel-Headed Hipsters.   
AUTHOR: Collie.   
SUMMARY: Sometime in the Sixties, in an unknown bar in an unknown place, Angel meets a man who will have an extreme influence on his life, and on the entire world.   
RATING: G.   
FEEDBACK: It's what makes the world go 'round.   
SPOILERS: Absolutely none.   
DISTRIBUTION: YGTS? and Through My Eyes. Anyone else, just let me know.   
DISCLAIMER: Angel belongs to Joss. Allen Ginsberg belongs to himself, and his memory belongs to all of the people who love him. RIP.   
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is an answer to Challenge #9 at You Got the Stones?   
I took extreme liberties with the persona of Allen Ginsberg. I'm sort of using him as an outlet for my own opinions. Please forgive me, man.   
Title and * from the poem 'Howl'. 1955-56.   
** - From the poem 'Understand That This is a Dream'. 1963.   
DEDICATION: To Kat.   
  
  
Angel was sitting alone at a bar in a town he did not know. He prefered to be anonymous in an anonymous place, because it was less likely he'd be forced to dwell on himself if he were. On the bartop in front of him were a half-empty glass of whiskey, a small bar napkin with a hastily scribbled doodle of no one in particular on it, and Angel's clasped hands.   
  
"A true artist puts their soul into their work. Those who have the words, write them. Those who do not, express themselves in different mediums. I see you draw."   
  
Angel glanced up at the man who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere and nodded slowly, not sure what to make of this sudden interloper.   
  
"That's good. We all need an expressive outlet."   
  
The man paused his dialogue just long enough to order a whiskey from the bartender.   
  
"Neat," he said, then turned back to Angel.   
  
"I'm a poet, but only because I have the words. Now you, you haven't spoken once since I came over, so you obiviously don't. Judging by the detail of your drawing, I don't suppose you paint."   
  
Angel barely had time to shake his head before the stranger continued.   
  
"No, most painters don't use much detail in their sketches. They fill them in with their paints. The sketch is only an outline -- a representation of their art. Their soul lies in color. Your's is more.. chiaroscuro."   
  
Angel blinked, opening his mouth for the first time.   
  
"Chiaroscuro?"   
  
The man nodded, accepting his neat whiskey from the bartender, who was shaking his head, as if he'd heard this conversation time and time before. The man raised the glass to eye-level, peering into it's amber depths.   
  
"Yes, chiaroscuro. It's Italian; an art word. It means light and shade, without regards to color."   
  
Then he slowly tipped the glass to his lips, draining it in a single smooth motion. Angel's eyes followed the path the whiskey took, lingering on the man's throat as he swallowed. He was pulled back by the man's voice once more.   
  
"You yourself strike me as very chiaroscuro."   
  
And for the first time, he stopped talking and just watched Angel, waiting for a response.   
  
"Oh, um.. yes, I suppose I am."   
  
The man smiled. Nodded.   
  
"Yes, you are."   
  
He turned, leaning his back against the bar. Angel took this moment to collect his bearings, sliding his eyes over the eclectic man. He looked not quite middle-aged; maybe early- to mid-thirties. He had a dark beard and moustache, and a head of unruly dark hair. His clothing was fairly colorful, reminiscent of the recent hippy movement and anti-war protesters. He was wearing political buttons that spouted propaganda, so that's exactly what Angel took him for. Just another damn hippy trying to make a difference. If they only knew. No amount of peace and love could _ever_ save them or their world from all the true evil that was out there. Not even this man was safe. Even though Angel had a soul and had regrets, he was still a killer. Angel sighed, shaking his head, feeling his sorrow already grow for this man, who would probably be dead in no less than a year; more than likely shot down in some protest somewhere. They were all the same.   
  
The man caught Angel's sigh and turned back, a smile on his face.   
  
"What's your name, man?"   
  
"Angel."   
  
The man smiled immediately, settling himself down on the barstool next to Angel.   
  
"Angel. Nice name. Very positive."   
  
Angel smirked, nodding slightly.   
  
"I suppose so."   
  
The man glanced off, silent for a second, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft, and Angel wasn't sure if it was directed towards him.   
  
"Angel-headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night.."*   
  
Angel watched the man until he turned back to Angel, the smile ever-present on his face.   
  
"I wrote that, years ago. Your name sort of brought back memories."   
  
Angel simply nodded. He was getting strange vibes from this man. He wasn't sure if he wanted this man to leave and never come back, or to stick around for as long as possible. Something about him intrigued Angel, but there was also something about him that made him want to rip that man from limb to limb so he'd leave Angel alone.   
  
"I know what you're thinking," The man said, pulling Angel back, "You're thinking, 'Oh, this guy is probably just some damn hippy, spouting off about peace and love. What the hell am I doing listening to this old fool? I've heard it all. What could he possibly have to tell me?'"   
  
Angel blinked.   
  
"Actually, that's exactly what I was thinking."   
  
The man smiled, leaning in closer, his eyes twinkling with knowledge and wisdom.   
  
"Well you're wrong. I'm not down with all that, you know. Sure, those kids think they know what they're doing. They think that by sitting around in parks all day, wasting their lives, getting high.. that that's going to have some sort of effect on the world. Well it's not. All it does is turn them into exactly what their parents and their officals are calling them -- washed-up burnt-out losers who will never make a difference. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not harping on their lifestyle. No, if they want to sit around on their asses all day, smoking reefer, strumming their acoustics, eating whole grain, and naming themselves 'Sunshine', that's all fine and dandy -- but that's not going to change the establishment that they so desperately want to change."   
  
Angel furrowed his brow, the man's passionate words finding their way inside him. Usually he would have brushed off someone like this by now, but for some reason, this man held him captive. He knew that this man was saying something important; something that would make a difference in Angel's life.   
  
"In order to change things -- to _really_ change them, you have to put _yourself_ out on the line. If you care enough about something, you'll risk anything for it. No hiding away in communes; you have to get involved in the world. If you want to change the way that people see you, then do it. If you want to change the way that others see the world, then do it. If there's a hole inside of you that you desperately want to fill, then fill it. No sitting around, feeling sorry for yourself. Anyone can change the world; anyone can make a difference, you know.. if they really try."   
  
Angel turned his face away from the man's. The man was right. He was right, but Angel didn't want to hear it.   
  
"But what if someone knows that they're doomed? What if they'd love nothing better than to .. redeem themselves, but they know that there's no point? That at the end of the day, everything will be the same? That they've maybe helped someone else, but that nothing new will change for them?"   
  
"But that's not true, Angel."   
  
Angel glanced up into the man's knowing face. He was smiling a sympathetic smile.   
  
"You may not feel the immediate result, that's true. You may feel that your efforts have been wasted because someone doesn't say thank you. But the truth of it is, no matter how little your contribution is, it _will_ make a difference in the world, and that in turn, will make a difference in your life. Therefore, the more you do, the better the cause you support, the better your outcome will be in the end. Karma has a way of serving those who serve others."   
  
He winked, then pulled out a pen and began scribbling something on a bar napkin. Angel watched him, not allowing himself to read the man's words. He may be evil and damned, but he wasn't nosy.   
  
The man finished and folded the napkin neatly in half. sliding it out in front of him. He motioned for the bartender once more, ordering one more whiskey. Then he turned back to Angel.   
  
"I've encountered jaded people like you before, Angel. Usually there are only two reasons they are the way they are -- they've either experienced a horror greater than anything else this world has to offer up, and therefore are uneffected by this planet's trivalities, or they really, truely just don't care. I know I probably won't get much asking this, but I'm curious about your stand on the war in Vietnam. Will you give me your opinion?"   
  
Angel blinked. He should have known this would come up. Sighing, he spread his hands on the bartop.   
  
"I, honestly, don't really have one. I'm.. not exactly American, you see. I don't really have a permanent residence here. Well, anywhere for that matter. So the fact that America is fighting a war -- even a war of the likes in Vietnam -- well, it doesn't really effect me. If it gets to be too much of a nusiance, I'll leave."   
  
The man nodded, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.   
  
"Thank you. That was an honest opinion. Don't worry -- I won't bore you with my opinions. I only do that to people I dislike."   
  
The man smiled, and to his surprise, Angel found himself smiling back. The man glanced at his wristwatch, while at the same time taking up his glass of whiskey, swallowing it in much the same manner he did to the previous one. Then he turned back to Angel, extending a hand.   
  
"It's time for me to be going. I have a train to catch."   
  
Angel slowly slipped his hand into the man's, matching the man's grip.   
  
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Angel. And just remember -- no matter how low things get; no matter how hopeless you believe the situation to be; the one thing that can always bring you up again is yourself. We're only as happy as we allow ourselves to be. No matter how much wrong we've commited in the past, it can always be redeemed inside of ourselves. Don't dwell on the past, friend. It's just the past. Look to the future. That's where our destiny lies. Take care."   
  
He smiled once more, slipping his hand from Angel's, grabbing his coat from the bartop, throwing a wave to the bartender and slipping out the door.   
  
He was gone, and Angel's head was whirling. The things he'd said -- they all made sense. It was as if that man had known. Angel turned back to the bar, his eyes catching sight once more of the napkin, folded neatly in half. Something caught his attention. One word scribbled across it.   
  
'Angel'.   
  
So Angel reached over to the note, slowly sliding it back over in front of him. He slowly unfolded it, eyes taking in the small but neat handwriting.   
  
_ "Real as a dream   
What shall I do with this great opportunity to fly?"**   
  
Always reach for your dreams, Angel.   
Never give up on what is important to your quest, friend.   
Allen Ginsberg. _   
  
Angel smiled softly, the ironic words floating through his mind. He folded the napkin back up and slipped it inside his coat pocket. Maybe Allen was right. But Angel wasn't ready. Not yet.   
  



End file.
